Pretty Shoes Start Again

Tripped out angels tried to warn you

Flippin’ out brothers try to call you

You’re alone in the dark

It’s a positive start

Yeah alone in the dark

Is a positive start

Breathing in easy on the conscience

Internal mirrors get along since

You’re alone in the dark

It’s a positive start

Yeah alone in the dark

Is a positive start

 

But there’s no collar to the clothes you wear

You can’t make it on your own, you said

What could Asia do for clover now?

You’re just scattering your bones about

 

All that we’ve been through’s a war boon

Telling the source, yeah I’ll be home soon

Can you miscarry me to a home by the sea?

Could you Miss carry me to our home by the sea?

 

And there’s no ring or kid and two’s a row

If I caught fire would you hose me down?

Only so much that the soul can dare

Hey pretty shoes you’re walking barefoot there.

 

Early Morning Movement

I live in a small fairly modern apartment block in the heart of the Bangkok central business district surrounded by huge office towers. I am a one minute walk from Surawong Road, about 2 from Sri Phaya Road and 5 from Samyan MRT underground station. But I live in a maze of tiny streets where Thai-Chinese shophouses and rooms for rent meet the occasional (usually run-down) apartment block and even the odd slum here or there. This is an area populated by a transitory army of university lecturers, university students, fair sized African and South Asian communities, a few Russians and a few other Europeans and Americans intermingling with the long-timers.

Independence Day

It’s the long wrong way

To the farm bar grill and Tokyo

Think I’ll take a little walk across the line

God, you are an evil man

Seems you wanna make humanity a crime

Gulping from the green latrine

There’s a simple antidote our energies

Purring, like you’ll never feel

 

You’ve got something a do

You’ve got something a do

You’ve got something a do

You’ve got something a do

 

Tootsie’s got a weigh-up on the mind

Bo Bo’s not a clown today

She’s just looking 50 -25

Debbie’s got this life to bear

 

You’ve got something a do

You’ve got something a do

You’ve got something a do

You’ve got something a do

 

Started innocuous a carton of wine

It was the hoopla era had a hell of a time

Now we’re staring at glass at broken glass as our shoes

Falling through pavements

Just an earthquake to boot

Could it get any worse?

You know I’m not gonna lie

So tell me one more untruth

But fuck it, fourth of July.

 

You’ve got something a do

You’ve got something a do

You’ve got something a do

You’ve got something a do

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bucket Lisp

This grey coat

Tell on me

I’m home again

Is it flesh or bone

Looking back

So unforgiven?

Man, I dunno

Certain things

Bout this condition

Building these walls

Took so long

For demolition

 

Racing through the cars in Copenhagen

Ripping up my heart in the petrol station

Wow did I know it was over

 

Finding you whole

Arms and eyes, and recognition

Make it worthwhile

How to say?

The future’s a gibbon

Turn, into the warmth of the sun

When I stray

Go that other way

Bucket, with the list and the scum

Tip ’em into the ground.

 

Racing through the stars in Copenhagen

Tearing out my eyes in the ultimatum

Wow did I know it was over.

 

 

 

 

(There’s probably not a spider in your banana, btw)

Woe, woe, woe, woe, subterfuge

World come crashin’ down today

Why can’t you see that the echo’s explosion

Cuts through the i of your leiderhosen?

You’ll be dead and I’ll be frozen

Turn, back, now.

 

Birds in the trees in the astral knots

Circling me and the gecko’s thoughts

The Polish Armada on an airborne mission

Fits like the spades of the shit you’re pissin’

You’ll be gone and I’ll be missin’

Stun, gun, time.

 

LOL Mr. Freeze from A Winter’s Tale

Thinks cos he’s feared he’s an ultra male

And the amnesty is flailin’ on the old dark mountain

Fire in the hole as the wolves surround him

You’ll be dumb and I’ll be accounting

Five, four, three.

 

To one I know from the hotel days

Games that we played in the crystal maze

Never got around to drinking caipirinhas

Blood lust dressed as a ballerina

You pass sane and I’ll be the dreamer

Mai?, Oh, Mai.

 

Woe, woe, woe, woe, subterfuge

World come crashing down today

Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa subterfuge

World come crashing down today.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Borderline: For flourishing multiculturalism in Britannia

Borderline

It’s been 7 years alone here, wasted

Half the time

Fighting wars inside I’m led

Whatshername?

Sink hole signature in my confusion

Oooh, the blame

Solo tiger watch ’em go.

 

Jonathan

It’s been so long not a whole lot of fun

You’re the one

Who could turn this on its heel

Damage won

Just uneducated hope that madness

Will become

King of all these crooked minds

Beers is fine

We’re all tourists here

There’s no need to fight

Shine a life

On illusions spinning real

Scaled the heights

It’s a miracle we touched down upright

Hail the night

When these borders disappear.

 

Borderline

It’s been too long hanging on here

Wasted.

 

 

Leaf

Bellicose silence, stranger and known, recharging slowly, slowness in nowhere, perched on a seat facing backward on a bus. Lately taken to crossing off ticks, no more crosswords, real sunglasses, soft blue cotton on unlitigant knees. Steps and stares, an empty anguish, vulnerable it seems to nonsense remarked, susceptible, to non-ideology: Blue suit jacket and blank new attachment, accounts from the boom, woven and spun, each the other the other its own, intrinsic webs, patterning inward. It’s about to rain. And as one remembers another asunder, we were just two leaves, fallen on one another, stuck by that rain and frozen by the season. And now you see it was perfect weather, to hold and to stay, to evade decomposition, if only for a while.

The CEO of your own company, for what it’s worth, akin to being on this bus, in a foreign country in peacetime. The old modern bus, full of comrades, men conscripted to the task of maintaining peace – like cats like fish – and everyone on the bus has a love letter romance, a guy, waiting, like it’s Dallas, ’63. But you don’t know anyone, and you’re no soldier, and nobody is waiting, and home is a broken mirror. You’ve become the CEO of your own company, that jokey wine conversation about our sexual organs, the picture from your movie in Paris on a mattress, the feeling, as the power cuts out, like it often does in the Himalaya. Your guide, the sub conscious, waves and palms. And you forget to pretend the interactions are transactions.

Add Lib

To be an Ecumenical Atheist one should meet the following criteria:

How do you do?

What do you do?

What are you going to do?

Or

What are you doing?

Now neither 21 nor malleable.

 

Asakusa Paper

The old and the new.